


His Favorite

by ScarletteStar1



Category: Homeland
Genre: Angst, Carrie has been flipped, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Mental Health Issues, Older Man/Younger Woman, PTSD, Post Russia, Russia, Trauma, Unresolved Sexual Tension, mentions of Carrie and Quinn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:00:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22638841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletteStar1/pseuds/ScarletteStar1
Summary: His “thank you” came on shuddering breath and he realized he wasn’t just thanking her for cleaning his spectacles. He was thanking her for surviving unthinkable despair, for coming back to him, for granting him absolution and grace with the beating of her heart. She could have given up so many times, and certainly it would have been so much easier. He didn’t have a clue why she survived or how, but he found he was just so unspeakably grateful that she had.
Relationships: Saul Berenson/Carrie Matthison
Comments: 9
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Saul processes his relationship with Carrie and what her captivity in Russia has done to both of them after she returns. . .
> 
> I love these two and their damage and the complexities of their relationship so very much. Over the past months, I have mused on what it would be like for Saul when Carrie returned so traumatized from Russia, and how he would deal with his own guilt and culpability for leaving her there. Simone's words to him in the van, at the end of season 7, "You're just going to leave her?" really got to me. 
> 
> In my head canon, Saul and Carrie have an on again/off again sexuality to their relationship, but in this story, I just wanted to capture an intimacy without physicality. It is mostly character study, from Saul's perspective. I absolutely worship comments and feedback.

**I.**

Saul had never been to Carrie’s cabin, yet the road there seemed familiar.

Maybe because the cabin was such an important part of her history. Maybe because he’d heard enough stories about the old place to fill a bookshelf. Or maybe it was just her presence next to him in the car as he drove.

She was familiar, even in her distance. 

She slept for a good part of the trip, which didn’t surprise him. Her mood stabilizers and antipsychotics were still dosed high and kept her sedated.

In the weeks since she'd been back, he'd taught himself to accept her new normal. Hell, he’d even grown somewhat accustomed to this muted version of her. He missed the vivacious, fearless asset Dar Adal had termed “a menace.” He would have given a kidney for a bit more color in her cheeks, which were still pale from months in captivity. But mentally, he forced himself to walk past the image of her, shivering in a stony cell, and reminded himself he was just happy to have her there. Glancing at her, he talked himself through this transition born of trauma, and tried to make a peace with it. After all, he’d not expected her to be particularly chatty, and he didn’t mind silence. At least, he didn’t mind _her_ silence.

It was enough, just having her there. With him. 

At a gas station, they stretched and he took a call. She got back in the car without any questions as he spoke on his phone. He watched her lean back in the seat and close her eyes.

“That was Maggie,” Saul explained as he got in the car. “Just checking up on you. Or probably checking up on me to make sure I’m taking adequate care of you, would be more accurate,” he chuckled and clicked his seatbelt. Carrie had been mostly quiet on their drive, but she smiled and rolled her eyes at this. He tried not to audibly sigh in relief at glimpsing the woman she was before Russia. Sardonic. Sure of herself. Headstrong. He tried not to leap out of his skin for joy. Not that it mattered. She was only there for a moment, and then her eyes closed again as they drove on.

**II.**

_She came over a roof to get me; did you know that? And you’re just going to leave her? Here? Do you know what they will do to her when they capture her? And she will be captured. . . If this is how you treat your favorites, I’d hate to see how your enemies fare, Mr. Berenson._

Simone’s words haunted him. For seven months, her words poisoned the air of every breath he took. Even after they’d gotten Carrie back and she was stabilized, he suffered disorienting echoes of rage and fear, and then doubled over himself in guilt, knowing whatever he felt was nothing compared to what she’d endured.

Simone’s words haunted him still, daily as he moved through the grooves routine and duty embossed in his life; as he tumbled through dreamless but turbulent sleep; as he reached habitually in his mind for Carrie in a manner that became compulsive. To ensure her safety. To ensure her continued presence.

He wondered if this is how she felt when she brought Quinn back from Berlin, when she installed him in her basement apartment against any good or moderately sane judgement. He wondered, but didn’t ask. She was too fragile, and she’d never wanted to talk about Quinn, even before Russia. He didn’t blame her. It wasn’t like he wanted to get all weepy over Mira, or Allison. Sure, they could volley their mistakes back and forth at one another in bitter rages of distrust on park benches, each trying to inflict the deeper wound, but they could never talk it through. Compassion had never been in their skill set. The closest he’d come was when he told her he needed her in the hospital hallway in Berlin, and she’d walked away, preoccupied with Quinn. She’d turned her back, so he'd turned his. She’d broken his brittle old heart, so he'd set his mind to breaking hers.

_Why are we so fucking good at hurting each other?_

He wondered, but never asked.

_Is this how you treat your favorite?_

He wondered, but never asked himself. He feared the answer. 

**III.**

“I don’t need a babysitter, Saul,” she said. It had been several weeks after her discharge from the inpatient stay. She was attending a partial hospital day program, from which he picked her up and drove her home in the evening. Without fail, he’d have a table laid and dinner prepared. Sometimes there was even a candle. Sometimes she ate. Most of the time she just moved the food around her plate.

He tried his best not to make his observation of her obvious, but it was almost impossible not to. Occasionally, her eyes tugged up toward the right corner of the room, as they had when they’d found her and she’d been actively psychotic. He’d not known then or now what it was she thought she’d seen, what struck such terror in her. She’d never spoken about it and he’d decided he’d rather not know. As it was, he’d spend the rest of his life trying to forget how she fought off his embrace, curled into a whimpering ball, and wet herself when he’d tried to visit her during those first days in the hospital. In all his years of interviewing, hell, of interrogating traumatized and captive subjects, it was the most decompensated he’d ever seen a human psyche.

But it wasn’t just a human rocking herself in a puddle on hospital tile. It was Carrie. He’d opened and closed his mouth, unable to speak until a nurse suggested he leave so she could administer some medication and get Carrie cleaned up. Saul was secretly relieved to walk away. Was this how he treated his favorite? Apparently it was. 

In the car, driving back to his office, he bit his lip until it bled to keep from crying. In the metal of his own blood he caught the tang of guilt and swallowed it.

“I’m not here to babysit you, Carrie,” he said over their plates of chicken pot pie.

“Well that’s what it feels like. Did Maggie put you up to this? She wanted me to stay there with them, but that never works out well for any of us, and I don’t want Franny to see me like this.”

“Like what?”

“Come on, Saul,” Carrie sniffed out a laugh and pushed away from the table. She walked to the kitchen counter, shaking her head. He followed her. “I’m not ready. For my daughter. For any of it,” she whispered through shaking lips.

“Okay,” he nodded. He wiped his mouth and balled his napkin up in his fist. He braced himself. “You wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“You want me to go? I’m sorry if I’ve been too much around. I just haven’t wanted you to be alone. . . I felt, well. . . doesn’t matter really what I felt. I’ll go if you want.”

“No,” she sighed. “I don’t want that either.”

“What can I do? Tell me how I can help, Carrie,” he said knowing at that particular moment he’d have done anything she’d asked if only to atone, if only to prove he’d take better care of his favorite.

She smiled and her eyebrows lifted, “Well, there is something.”

“Name it.”

“You think you could get me out of here for a few days,” she sighed and shrugged.

“Yeah. I can do that,” he said and pulled her into a gentle and tentative embrace. The warmth of her flooded him. He squeezed his eyes to keep back tears and wondered at the brutality of his fist on the small of her back, then realized he still clutched his napkin.

**IV.**

It was a thing of glory to watch the purpose with which she walked into her cabin. Saul carried in their bags, then knitted his fingers together and took it in. She walked through the rooms and seemed to have a mental check list of which he knew nothing.

“Wood,” she said at last. “We’ll need to get a good pile of dry wood before it gets too dark.” He followed her out into the trees and they gathered sticks, twigs, and logs in a companionable quiet that was neither happy or sad. She seemed to tire quickly and retreated to the cabin. He brought a few more loads up onto the porch, then found her sitting in a chair in front of the fireplace. She looked up at him with red rimmed eyes. “I know you’re good at putting them out, but you any good at starting fires, Saul?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I got this. You rest for a bit.” He busied himself with the task at hand. After a hearty fire blazed in the hearth, he turned to find Carrie curled and asleep on the couch. Rifling through the bags they brought, he found a soft, clean blanket and covered her with it. For a time, he sat on the other end of the sofa, by her feet, and watched the flames dance. Without realizing, he rested his hand on the crest of her hip and leaned slightly toward her. She stirred, but didn’t wake, and he looked down to find his hand on her. He kept it there until dusk turned dark outside.

Reluctantly, he rose and stoked the fire. Then he went out to the kitchen to make them something to eat.

Just as he was about to remove a pair of beautifully seared fillets from the stove, he was startled by a thin wail that grew gradually into a piercing shriek. In an instant, he flipped off the burners and dashed into the main room of the cabin where Carrie thrashed on the couch, half awake, half asleep, completely terrified.

“Carrie,” he said. “Hey. Hey, Carrie,” he knelt next to her and tried to take her into his arms, knowing she would fight him.

“No! Stop! NO!” She screamed and beat her fists against him. He held her tight and spoke soothingly.

“Carrie, it’s me. It’s Saul. We are at your cabin. You’re safe. You’re with me. You’re okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” He murmured these things over and over until her screaming quieted to sobs, then to muffled crying, and finally stopped altogether.

“Oh my god Saul, I’m so sorry,” she gasped when she finally regained awareness of self and surroundings.

“No, no. Don’t be sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for.” Desperately, he looked around for a tissue, and finding none, he used the cuff of his shirt to wipe the tears off her cheeks and to dab inexpertly at her dripping nose.

When he started to rise from the floor, Carrie whimpered, “You’re leaving?”

“I am just going into the kitchen to get your meds. I’ll be right back, okay?” He kissed her forehead. She nodded. He returned quickly with the prescription prescribed for panic attacks and some water. “Here we go,” he said as he popped the pill into her hand and handed her the water. She smiled at him.

“It’s funny you know?”

“What is?” Saul sat down next to her.

“That you never had kids with Mira. You would have been so good at it. You’re so good at taking care of people.” Carrie leaned into him and he put his arm around her.

“I don’t know about that. I wasn’t so good at taking care of you, Carrie. Fact is, I was fucking awful at it. I wish. . . ah, I wish I’d done better by you. Kept you safe. Probably a blessing I never had any kids anyway.” He sighed heavily.

“Hey,” Carrie said firmly and turned to face him. “Hey, look at me. You don’t blame yourself, do you? For this? For me?”

Saul worked his jaw, blinked back tears, and tried to focus on the aroma of steak and potatoes wafting out from the kitchen. _Salt. The meat probably could use more salt._ “I should not have left you in Russia,” he finally choked.

“Oh Saul,” Carrie said and put a hand on either side of his face. “No. No, you are not allowed to do that to yourself. That was the mission. We both knew the risks were infinite. And my biology is mine. This is not on you. Please.”

“You and your fucking mission, Carrie Matthison,” he said and leaned his big head against her delicate fingers.

“Yeah, well, who taught me?” She tried to make her tone flip and light, but he closed his eyes against the harsh truth of it. “Saul, I’m sorry. I was joking.”

It was almost laughable. Even without trying, and even in kindness or jest, their words were barbed and inflicted insult upon injury.

He turned his face and kissed her palm. “It is okay,” he whispered and hoped his tears were mostly obscured by his beard. But the fire had done a wondrous job of warming the room, so his glasses fogged. Carrie noticed, gently removed them, and set to work cleaning them with the hem of her shirt. She used a corner of her blanket to dry his eyes before handing his glasses back to him. His “thank you” came on shuddering breath and he realized he wasn’t just thanking her for cleaning his spectacles. He was thanking her for surviving unthinkable despair, for coming back to him, for granting him absolution and grace with the beating of her heart. She could have given up so many times, and certainly it would have been so much easier. He didn’t have a clue why she survived or how, but he found he was just so unspeakably grateful that she had.

Carrie put her head on his chest as she’d done dozens of times before, but this time seemed different. This time it seemed he could feel the weight of all her experiences, and pain, and confusion and it seemed like a part of his own being, his own soul.

“Something smells good,” she said. “Did you cook?”

“Yeah, I did. You hungry?”

“Mmmh, sure. Let’s eat.”

 **V**.

After supper, she offered to play cards with him, but he could tell she was exhausted. He did dishes while she made up beds. They took turns using the bathroom and changing into pajamas. Saul put the kettle on for tea and while it was heating, he got her meds and brought them to her with some water.

Carrie tucked blonde ribbons of her hair behind her ears and plopped down on the sofa bed, which was piled high with blankets. “You don’t have to do that, you know. I am perfectly capable of getting my own pills. I have done it for years,” she said, looking up at him with her nose scrunched in annoyance.

“I know I don’t have to, and I know you are capable, but I promised Maggie I’d take care of you. So just let me take care of you?”

“Fine,” she said and swallowed the pills. “Hopefully I won’t wake you up with any nightmares.”

“It’s okay if you do. I’ll be right here.” He pointed to the adjacent couch where they’d spread out a sleeping bag and pillows. Saul fetched tea and they sipped it from their respective beds. Neither of them were much for small talk, but neither of them seemed to want to scratch the surface of the past year, so their silence was a tacit treaty.

“Saul?”

“Mmmh?”

“Will you hold me for a while?”

“Yeah, of course,” he said and laid on his back next to her. She rolled into his arms and rested her head on his chest. Lazily, he trailed his hand up and down her arm, stroked her hair off her face, pressed a kiss into the crown of her head. She nuzzled her face against him. The fire crackled and popped and the noise of night insects filtered in from outdoors. “It’s peaceful here; I can see why you love it.”

“At least one of us can feel it,” Carrie muttered.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m numb. If I’m not feeling pulverizing terror, I just feel dead. There’s no in between. Dunno if that even makes sense. You’ve probably never felt that.”

“Oh, I don’t know. In the early days before I ever knew you, probably before you were even born, I had some times,” he breathed. “And then there was a while of darkness after the prisoner exchange in Pakistan.”

“You never told me that, Saul.”

“I never told you a lot of things, Carrie. And I was angry with you. As I recall, we spent a lot of time being angry with each other back then. Doesn’t help or change anything now to regret it. I could spend the rest of my days saying how sorry I am and it still wouldn’t change a damn thing, would it?” His words were bitter, but his voice was soft and their bodies were warm against one another. Carrie reached up and pulled at his face and tried to find his lips in the darkness with hers. The sweetness of her breath made him moan and for only a flicker of a moment, he allowed the indulgence of their mouths, heated and searching, to connect. But just as quickly as it started, he ended it. “No.”

“No?”

“No, Carrie. We can’t do this. Not now.”

“Why not now, Saul? Goddammit! I just want to feel! Please, help me feel something other than dead and frightened.”

“Okay, okay,” he said and cradled her face in the crook of his neck. He rocked her body. “What do you want to feel?”

“I want to feel safe. I want to feel alive. I want to feel real and here and maybe even desirable.”

“Carrie, you are all of those things. We don’t need to sleep together for you to feel those things. Come here,” he gently rolled her so her back curled into his chest and wove his arms around her. She clutched at his hand and kissed his fingers which came to rest near her heart. He nestled his face into the back of her neck and peppered her with kisses. Then his lips found her ear, and he whispered, “You are safe. I’m here. You are alive. You are here. You are the most real person I’ve ever known in my entire fucking life and I don’t know what I would do without you, Carrie. Can you feel that?”

"Yes."

"I'm feeling your heart beat right now under my fingers and I swear my own heart is only beating because yours is. Do you feel that?" 

“Yes,” she sighed and kissed his fingers again and then dragged them over her face and he felt her tears. He felt her the humidity of her breath as she wept, and realized he was crying too. “Don’t let go.”

“I won’t,” he sighed raggedly. “I won’t let you go. I won’t let you go. . .” he repeated this mantra in a whisper until he felt her fall into sleep. And just before he followed her into the dark, he gathered her to him just a bit closer and tighter, and whispered, “I’ll never let you go again, my favorite.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I added this as an after thought. . . I wanted to leave the first chapter as a story all on its own, and this part can be read as a part of it or ignored completely. . .

**VI.**

She heard his whisper. She laid perfectly still and tried not to smile. 

He'd bought it. She didn't even think he'd been watching or wondering. Maybe it had been long enough since she'd been returned to him and he'd given up thinking she'd come back with work to do for the other side. Maybe somewhere in his old, black heart he actually still cared for her and was so entirely focused on her well-being he lost sight of the task at hand. Or maybe she was just that convincing of an actress. 

Either way, it didn't matter. 

She crept from the bed and out to the kitchen. Under the sink, she found the burner she'd stuck there when Saul was out gathering wood. _Good to go_ , she texted and sent to the preprogrammed number. Then she tucked the phone away and went back to bed. 

She laid in his arms. His warmth was pleasant enough. When he started to snore lightly, she closed her own eyes. She could relax. 

The first part of her mission was a success. 

But there was so much more to do. 

**Author's Note:**

> Recently it came to my attention on Reddit that fanfic for Homeland is "stupid". I beg to differ. I think fanfic is a brilliant expression of what might be in a super imaginative and non corporatized reality for entertainment. So. . . there's that. It will be many months I suppose until I am able to see the final season of Homeland. . . since I watch on Hulu or Netflix. This was just my imagining of what might have transpired in my Homeland Alternate Universe. Thanks so much for reading. xoxoxo..


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